


In Deep Devotion (or, Five Times Michael Wanted to Kiss James, and One Time He Did)

by luninosity, significantowl



Series: A Model Relationship [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Model!James, Protective Michael, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James is a very in-demand model, Michael's hired to be his bodyguard for his autumn fashion shoot, and feelings make everything complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudoneems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoneems/gifts).



> For pseudoneems' prompt of model!James and bodyguard!Michael for the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza. Title from the Arctic Monkeys' "I Wanna Be Yours."

Within five seconds of meeting James McAvoy, Michael realized three important facts. First, James genuinely was as kind and beautiful and compassionate as he came off  in interviews and photographs; on top of this, James actually managed to look even younger and more lovely in person, as if he had a tiny time machine in his back pocket, or maybe a sorcerer on speed-dial.

Second, James in person also apparently favored old faded jeans and too-large sweaters, today’s a hideous shade of orange that should’ve clashed with the hint of ginger stubble but somehow didn’t. James was the sort of man who’d not only be on time to his appointment with his studio-mandated bodyguard, but who would show up ten minutes early, order coffee for them both, and be happily ensconced in a tattered paperback copy of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ when said bodyguard arrived, precisely at the agreed-upon two o’clock.

Michael was confused by this, and didn’t want to be. Most celebrities treated him as at best a necessity and at worst an accessory, rather like a six-foot-tall deadly purse, and were often late, caught up in parties--or important meetings, he amended, feeling churlish--and not thinking about how difficult this made the job of those tasked with their safety. James, on the other hand, had smiled at him and said, “I didn’t know what you liked in your coffee, so, here, I picked up cream and sugar packets, but if you want something else I’ll get it, oh, fuck, I don’t even know whether you drink coffee, I’m so sorry, hi, thank you for being here, Michael, isn’t it?” and Michael’d stared at the extended hand for a good five seconds.

The third fact was that he was going to owe Steve ten pounds, because Steve had smirked at him and said, “you’ll enjoy this one,” and Michael’d grumbled, “bet you I won’t,” because, really, protecting a male model was not high on his list of desirable assignments, he knew nothing about the profession and had the vague impression that models lived on celery and vodka and good looks, and he’d been hoping for someone he could at least respect this time around.

“Ten quid says you will,” Steve’d said, “you can pay me when you’re done. Two weeks, they need you for.” And promptly jetted off to Tahiti, which he not-terribly-endearingly referred to as “the magical place,” for a week’s vacation.

“I hate you,” Michael’d told the closing office door, the sign that proclaimed McQueen’s Personal Protection Services (“McQueen Means Royal Quality!”), and the silent room, and sighed, and picked up the phone.

And now here they were. Himself, and his client. Who, in cheerful defiance of his #3 Sexiest Man in Britain status, was nibbling a lemon-sugar biscuit and spilling crumbs on the table.

He cleared his throat. Got a firmer grip on himself. Professional. Not watching that pink tongue sweep out to catch the last sparkling sugar-crystals. Certainly not.

The afternoon was crisp, not freezingly cold but with an underlying bite in the air. A crackle. A shiver, the world saying: sit up and pay attention. Michael, who ordinarily liked the chill--it kept him from being complacent--wanted to snap back at it: yes, all right, he’s quite possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met and he’s got the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, point taken.

Grip. Self. Right.

“So...you are aware of why we’re meeting? Why your director requested our services during this shoot?”

“Oh, entirely.” James finished off the biscuit. Regarded him with an unnervingly straightforward gaze. “Matthew told me. It’s not about me personally; it’s just they had some...personality conflicts with their last high-profile model, and the person threatened to do something unpleasant if they replaced him, which of course they did, with me...I’ve worked with bodyguards before, on location. I promise I’ll try to behave.”

Worked with. Not employed, or used, or any of those words.

Michael took a sip of coffee. It was delicious. Of course it was, though; James no doubt had enough money for the best-tasting coffee on the planet. Money from looking pretty on camera; and he hid his grimace in another longer sip, though he couldn’t shake the odd idea that his annoyance had more to do with other people leering at his client than with his client himself.

“You’ll be fine with giving me access to your trailer on set, your hotel room, your wardrobe?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re fine with doing exactly as I say. If I tell you to move, you move. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I have to hurt anyone--”

“Not saying I’d be thrilled, but I’d trust your judgment.” James stretched, arms settling behind his head, casually flexible. Those biceps had an impressive amount of muscle, despite his compact height and build. Michael swallowed again. “How long’ve you been doing this? Guarding people?”

“Three years. I’m good with most small firearms, hand-to-hand combat, and ballet. Is that important?”

“What? No, not really; I wasn’t asking about your qualifications, I’ve seen your resume. Ballet?”

“Agility,” Michael said, which was true, though it also meant he could probably kick an evildoer’s head off if it came to that.

“Oh, of course, that makes total sense!” Oceanic eyes radiated enthusiasm at him. “You have to be in fucking fantastic shape to be a dancer, and so much dedication, I’m surprised more people don’t think of that as training, honestly. But you used to work in film?”

Abrupt topic switches, eagerness, energy; well, Michael could keep up, and did. “Stunt work. Fight scenes. It was fun.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Accident,” Michael said, “knee,” and then snatched up the coffee again, because his dead dreams of a Hollywood stuntman career wasn’t a subject he talked about, ever, with anyone.

Except for how he apparently did.

It was the eyes. So blue. So earnest. Gazing at him as if he were the only important person in the world, as if the next words out of his mouth would be the most significant words ever said, and if they contained a secret then James would take that trust and keep it protected forever, honored with it. And for just a second Michael believed it all.

“I’m sorry,” James said, and he truly was, emotion right there in those eyes, and Michael, horrified, had a fourth unwanted realization: that this must be why James was such a phenomenally brilliant model and marketing tool, because that expression and that flexible tartan voice could get state secrets out of highly-trained agents in thirty seconds flat, and the Secret Service really ought to start employing the man…

“It’s fine!” he said, too hastily, and pushed papers across the table. “Sign here. And there. Um. If you’re, y’know, happy with me. With my services.” Oh god. “With working...with...me. Initial over there.”

“Is that it?” James handed back the pen and the paperwork, and lifted a coffee cup his direction, a playful salute. There was whipped cream floating on top. And caramel. “Are we good?”

“Yes?”

“Michael?”

“If you’re wondering, we’ll start this evening. I’ll come by your place, so I’m already there when the driver picks you up tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, but not what I was thinking. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“It’s my job.”

“It is,” James said, “but it’s fucking brilliant of you, really, you spend your life protecting other people, and if that doesn’t make you a superhero I don’t know what does, so thank you.”

Michael stared at him, caramel indulgence and world’s ugliest sweater and absolute utter sincerity. And the last realization hit with elephantine force: James had treated him like a fellow professional, like a friend, and James was gorgeous, and James looked at his second-choice career option and believed that he was amazing, and Michael had never wanted to kiss another person quite so badly in his life.

He said, “Do you always swear this much, or do you tone it down on camera?” and James started laughing; got out, “You’ve never seen any of my unedited commercial footage, have you, it’s on YouTube somewhere,” and Michael considered this and permitted himself to answer, “No, but I definitely fucking will,” and watched in satisfaction as James dissolved into amusement again.

James laughed with his whole body. Even the hair danced, joyous, unrestrained. Artwork in motion, against the pearl-pale greyness of the cafe window.

And Michael gave in. Couldn’t be angry at Steve anymore. Because, yes, he was going to have fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! We should be updating weekly. Not necessarily always on Mondays, but expect us once a week until it's done! :)

A day later, Michael was decidedly not having fun.

It was a studio shoot, bare and minimalist, on a stark white set with no props, no chairs, and for all this was the twenty-first century, apparently no climate control. Outside, the early-morning city street had been nearly as cold, but far kinder, with friendly patches of sunlight to warm the blood and promise a better afternoon to come.

There was only one friendly thing about this frankly horrible room, and he was currently staring into the camera, blue eyes and red lips promising... well. Perhaps that was a thought Michael was better off not finishing, it was already compromising his focus.... He couldn't claim to know much about photo shoots and art direction, but watching James now, he felt a glimmer of understanding. Matthew, the director, wasn't wrong. Put this man in the bleakest of surroundings, and the hapless magazine-buyer would still want to climb through the pages just to be where he was.

Just because Michael sort of understood didn't mean he had to _like_ it.

Earlier that morning, James had left the hotel sensibly dressed in a cable-knit jumper, with at least two t-shirts peeking out at the neck and hem. He'd looked warm, comfortable, and in Michael's opinion, completely camera-ready, but was forced to strip immediately upon arrival and try on various outfits until the director felt they'd successfully achieved "autumn casual." Michael looked away the moment the bare skin of James' stomach had come into view, hating himself for the unprofessionalism: if he couldn't be vigilant, then what good was he?

"Autumn casual" appeared to be code for "uselessly threadbare," as far as Michael could tell, as the grey pullover James wore was barely worthy of the name, and his faded jeans sported an unnecessary number of holes. But the director seemed content for now, and the skinny young photographer was clicking away, shouting instructions that James followed with an astonishing intuition. He had a knack for shifting body language and expression into precisely what the man wanted, even when what the man wanted was vague and conceptual and half-articulated.

"Man" was a charitable description, Michael thought, considering the photographer looked barely twenty years old. Was this some sort of work-experience program? His first job? Was he used to working with real, living, breathing humans, with real human needs, or just still lifes of apples and bloody pears?

"You're glowering." James appeared at his side when a break was finally called, eyebrows quizzical and skin worryingly pale beneath his make-up. "Why are you glowering?"

"I'm getting you a coffee," Michael said. A plan of action. He was always happier with a plan of action. Coffee would warm James up from the inside out, and then he could go back to worrying about the things he was being paid to worry about, rather than James being struck down by hypothermia. And Michael owed him a coffee, anyway, and he knew James would enjoy it, he'd seen that for himself yesterday...."Cream? Sugar?"

"Yes, please," James said, bemused. "What - oh. I'm coming with you?"

He'd interpreted Michael's head-jerk correctly; that boded well for the future, if - please God not _when_ \- quick, wordless communication between them ever became the key to James' safety. "You are. I prefer to operate within ten feet of you at all times." _Could've said five,_ his brain whispered. _Be honest. Wouldn't you prefer_ that _?_

"Fair enough." James matched his stride easily as they crossed the room, for all he was a head shorter. It was pleasing, that simple primal rhythm of finding oneself well-met, of being in sync. More importantly, Michael told himself, it was safe. They could run together, if they had to.

If the vague, unspecified threat that had led to Michael's employment was weighing on James' mind, he hid it well, currently behind musings upon the likelihood of there being any interestingly-flavoured coffee syrups. "Yes, yes, rot your teeth," Michael replied, and tried not to be obvious about basking in the radiant grin James offered in return. "Ah. What flavours do you consider interesting?" Besides caramel, because he'd learned that yesterday too, and remembering details about a client's likes and habits was simply good protocol. Nothing more.

"Everything's _interesting_ ," James said, "interesting isn't the same thing as good. Oh."

 _Oh_ because they'd reached the refreshment station in the corner, and found a cold coffee maker, a sad little stack of artificial sugar packets, a case of water bottles, and a bowl filled with depressing-looking energy bars. This, it seemed, was what models were meant to live on.

Michael looked around, intending to glare at the director, but Matthew and the photographer were in deep consultation, heads together in a way that couldn't possibly bode well. He wrenched the lid off one of the bottles of water, intending to fill up the coffee maker, but when he flipped the lid he realised it was already full to the brim with water and packed with grounds, and all that was left was for it to be switched on.

He switched it on. Nothing happened.

"It's all right," James said a few minutes later, when Michael had flipped the switch a few more times, crawled under the table to check the electrical outlet, and fiddled unsuccessfully with the cord where it met the back of the pot. "A little water'll do me fine."

It wouldn't, but just then Matthew called, "Time!" and James darted off, with an apologetic smile that said if the ten-foot rule were to be observed, it was Michael's turn to keep up.

Unfortunately, Michael was right, and the consultation he'd witnessed yielded no good whatsoever. In the wardrobe corner, a new outfit was presented to James, no more sensible than the last. The dark rinse jeans were intact, yes, a slight improvement there, but the crimson jumper was astoundingly thin, with a neckline that plunged down low, and of course James was allowed to wear nothing beneath it; from his clavicle to his (strong, freckled, enticing - all right, Michael could see the reasoning) pecs, he was left exposed to the camera and the cold.

It made sense for one of those things to bother Michael. He was here for James' protection, and not all threats came armed with weapons. But his other reason for wanting to bundle James up in a blanket had nothing to do with the chill, and was both futile and ridiculous, considering James' career, and the fact that Michael had no claim upon James' body in the slightest. 

But no-one had ever said jealousy was logical. Michael knew how he would feel, two or so months from now, when he flipped open a magazine at Waterstone's and saw that face, that body, that smile. He knew what he would want to do. And the measly little fact that he couldn't didn't mean that half the bloody population deserved to feel the same way. 

When James changed clothes this time, Michael didn't look away for an instant, and he caught it all. The slight hesitation before James tugged on the hem of the grey pullover, the way the perpetually good-natured quirk of his lips winked out of existence when he tossed it aside, shoulders and chest bared, and the shiver that ran through him from head to toe even after he was fully dressed once more.

At least, fully dressed to the director's mind. Could James not model a fucking scarf? Something woolly and thick with tight interlocking stitches? People wore scarves in autumn, Michael knew they did. Was that too much to fucking ask?

No, it fucking wasn't. Michael thought briefly about what association with James was doing to his choices of vocabulary, glowered at the room - if he were going to be accused of it, he might as well do it on purpose - and watched his client like a hawk.

"Ready," James said, and with a brilliant smile in Michael's direction that left him flabbergasted - he had no idea what he'd done to deserve it, failing to fix a coffee pot couldn't count, surely? - James turned the full force of his expressive nature to the camera again like it was the only thing in the world.

It soon became clear Michael had every right to be worried. 

James didn't shiver on camera, and his expression never slipped. He was far too controlled for that, and far too professional - too professional for his own good, Michael thought viciously after an hour or so, because Michael was trained to notice little details, and he knew what he was looking at: James was conserving energy. Oh, he still shifted positions with the photographer's every whim, but at a slower pace. Fewer displays of intuition, more lag time while the photographer stumbled over trying to _use his fucking words_ (Michael's mental impression of his age went down with every passing minute) and James waited for him to make his wishes clear.

 _Not all threats came with weapons._ Michael caught his breath. Could someone have engineered this? The bitterly cold room, the broken coffee maker.... Someone who knew the director and the impractical clothes he would choose, someone who might have been given details about the shoot and its location before he'd been let go.... It should sound ridiculous and melodramatic, but the hell of it was, it only sounded plausible. Michael didn't know James' medical history. Breach of privacy or not, he should have asked. Hypothermia was far from the only possibility here. What if James had weak lungs? What if he were prone to pneumonia? Michael could be sitting beside him in a hospital room in two days' time, watching him struggle to breathe with an oxygen tank.

"Take five!" Matthew called. Michael snorted at that, determined to take ten or fifteen or however many it took to get James to a room where the heating actually bloody worked. Matthew and the photographer put their heads together again, the two lighting guys relaxed and chatted, and on the set, James gripped his knees to his chest, and made no move to get up from his last position on the floor.

Ten feet disappeared in the blink of an eye as Michael crossed the distance between them. "James," Michael said, crouching down. "James. How cold are you?"

His hands hovered above James' of their own accord. "I'm fine," James said, "honestly," but he dipped his head in the tiniest of nods, and Michael took that for permission to bundle those sturdy fingers between his own.

Freezing. They were freezing. "There must be coffee somewhere in this building. Let's go find it." 

"There's no need." James shook his head. "We're nearly done here. And we'll get done more quickly if I don't wander off."

"I didn't hear anyone say that."

Close up, James' smile looked wrong on his face - they'd barely used any makeup on his lips, they'd barely _needed_ any, and now those lips were too pale, too _normal_. "No-one did, but I can tell. They've got what they need. Matthew'll make us do a few more shots to be certain, but we'll be wrapped in no time. Promise."

"That would probably be for the best," Michael said grimly. McQueen's operatives were expected to keep a low profile while on the job, but only until the client's safety demanded otherwise, and right now, with James' fingers icy in his, Michael was on the verge of raising his profile considerably.

If these people couldn't see how cold James was, perhaps it was time he assisted them with that.

Yet Michael waited, for James' sake. It wasn't the most professional of decisions. He knew that and it twisted, down in his gut. He was allowing the level of acceptable risk to rise simply because he wanted - _needed_ \- blue eyes to smile on him at the end of the day. And while he had no doubt James would be perfectly polite and perfectly understanding if Michael ended this madness by, say, forcing Matthew to come over and feel his model's hands for himself, it was impossible to imagine James being happy about it.

Michael stood against the wall for the next quarter of an hour, clenching his fists and biting his tongue. But only for a quarter of an hour, thank God, because at that point Matthew proved James right by calling it a wrap.

The cameras stopped. The lighting rig dimmed. James immediately began shivering, horrible full-body trembles that sent Michael's stomach into freefall and his feet rushing forward, and before he knew it, his hand was around James' elbow. "Wardrobe. Now," he said, and James nodded, no complaints.

When they reached the wardrobe corner, James hugged one arm around his middle as he fumblingly began to sort through piles of discarded clothes with the other. Michael was searching too, and while James' warm cabled jumper wasn't immediately visible to his eye, some sort of bizarre afghan-poncho-thing was, and he snatched up the acres of wool, threw it over James' shoulders, and bundled it snug against his chest.

"There," he said, gruff and soft, and James looked up at him, and oh, God, James' face was so white but his eyes were bright. He was so close, and all Michael wanted to do was pull him closer, press a hand to that cold cheek, warm those lips with his own, and never let him go. But kissing clients was _not_ part of the McQueen's protocol, and did he have even the slightest reason to think James would welcome such a thing from his newly-hired bodyguard, anyway?

"Thank you," James said, voice as shaky as the rest of him, but yes, those eyes were smiling, whether Michael truly deserved it or not. "Thank you for this, and for..." He nodded towards the set. Thanks for trying to get me coffee, thanks for warming my hands, thanks for letting me finish the job without a fuss? "For everything. You're wonderful."

"Tell it to my boss," Michael said, taking refuge in the joke, because his voice would betray him if he tried to tell James how glad he was to do it, how afraid he was that he should have been more objective, should've done better. Instead he tugged on the afghan, wrapping it more tightly around James, and let it do what he thought he never could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they have a visitor, go to a pub, and encounter an Evil Person or two.

Five days after that, end of the first week, halfway through. And Michael was completely certain that this was the most difficult job he’d ever undertaken, and those reasons had nothing to do with the actual amount of protective services he’d had to render, and everything to do with his own fraying nerves.

James was too nice. Too willing to be accommodating, to smile at the skinny young photographer--who kept beaming at him, no doubt thrilled to be working with a model of such competence and effortless skill and, all right, complete heartstopping beauty, Michael could say that in the privacy of his own head and never aloud. James agreed instantly when asked to stay late, or to let his wrists be tied to a curtain with rough-wound rope for a sense of “controlled danger,” whatever that meant. Michael’d been on edge the entire two hours of those particular photos, poised to jump. What if that danger became real? What if James, tied in place, couldn’t move at the moment when movement became vitally necessary?

There had been a threat. That was real. Being ill-defined and nebulous didn’t make it any less so.

James in that artistically rumpled suit, wrists bound, lips slightly parted, was going to sell entire print runs of whatever magazine it was, and not because people wanted to buy the suit. When James’d tugged experimentally at one wrist, muscles bunching in his arms, and then looked up and grinned and said “Perfect,” all playful restrained power and graceful good-natured compliance, Michael’d nearly dropped the coffee he’d been holding. He felt as if he had anyway. That grin, that voice, those bound arms. The fantasy was instant, and scalding.

And James _was_ nice, and kind, and beautiful, and sensed all of Michael’s moods without apparent effort, glancing over with an _I know, I’m sorry, one more minute_ smile just as Michael was considering very calmly expressing noisy words regarding rope-burns and unnatural arm positions being held for too long and the union-mandated break times for models.

He knew exactly what those were. He’d looked up all those regulations. Part of his duty, he had to know what a normal working day was, had to step in if James were in any sort of trouble, didn’t he? That was the job. And the job revolved around the existence of a threat. To James.

No. To his client. Professionalism. He had it. Surely he did. He was proud of his work and his skill, he’d never let a client come to harm, and if he could still hear a lochs-and-sunshine accent calling him a superhero on first meeting, if that made him a little warmer inside, that didn’t have to interfere in the least with his commitment to James’ safety.

His _client’s_ safety. Fuck.

James was, he’d decided, a terrible influence. On his vocabulary. On his ability to shower in less than five minutes. The ropes and restraints had just been unfair.

James had come over to him at the end of that two-days-ago session, smile a bit lopsided, rubbing at his left wrist. “Everything all right? Also, look, less than ten feet from you. All day.”

“Thank you. Let me see that.”

“What--oh, it’s fine, really, I’ve been hurt worse, remind me to tell you about the day a director made me jump off a ladder twenty times, and on the tenth one I hit the side of the mat and just about shattered my kneecap on the floor--”

“Not helping.” And maybe he could go back and figure out which director that’d been. He’d seen James’ portfolio. He had excellent deductive skills.

“I assume you also know first aid,” James’d said cheerfully, and held out both hands for inspection. “Nothing shattered or broken or otherwise maimed, today, though. Promise.”

“I do. And you’re not fine.” True. The rope-marks were angry. Red and harsh. “You’re done for today, then? Back to the hotel?”

“Yes. They’ve given up on getting the lighting right, through that window. I’m starting to feel bad for Nick--the photographer, not sure you’ve talked to him?--on this shoot. Not his fault the weather isn’t cooperating. And every day we’re here is costing the studio an absolutely fucking enormous amount of money, and they’re annoyed with him, but it’s not his fault, is it…maybe I should talk to someone.”

“If you need to,” Michael’d said, caring about young Nick and Nick’s weather-related problems only insofar as he might need to threaten the boy with bodily harm at some point unless this shoot got easier, and kept his hand curled loosely around James’ arm because he could, because neither of them’d moved to pull away. “Here.”

James had taken the paper cup, breathed in, laughed. “Coffee? Pumpkin spice?”

He’d bribed one of the lighting crew to run to Starbucks. He’d remembered James listing pumpkin amid the potentially interesting flavors, along with more exotic suggestions, blueberries and cream and tropical coconut. But this had been seasonal, and therefore more rare and enticing. And James deserved the most enticing. James was working under obviously flawed conditions, a wet-behind-the-ears photographer and a seemingly sadistic director and a looming cloudy threat. James should have warmth and comfort and too-sweet coffee, and would, if Michael had to arrange it every single day.

Practical. Keeping James in the best possible condition. That was tactically sound.

“Definitely interesting, and you didn’t have to, but thank you,” James had said, mentioning nothing about the repaired heating vents in the building, and took a sip, and shut his eyes for an instant in bliss, and Michael’d thought, if I kissed him now he’d taste like autumn, pumpkins and cinnamon and rustling leaves.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. Hopefully not visibly.

“I do know first aid,” he’d said, and had opened the car door for James on the way to the hotel, and nudged James to sit on the sofa, and gingerly folded back sweater sleeves and bit back expletives at the searing lines over pale wrists.

He’d checked both arms over methodically, gaze lingering on every mark, every detail; he’d ensured that James could move without hesitation, could feel sensation, hadn’t lost circulation to tightness or repeated flaying of skin. James had watched him, not arguing, smiling a little; “You’re all right,” Michael’d said, more gruffly than he’d meant to. That skin felt soft and wounded under his hands.

“I am,” James agreed, “I’d’ve stopped it if I wasn’t,” and drank more coffee while Michael found his first-aid kit and dug out soothing antibiotic cream, just in case. It had numbing properties, too.

First the cold. Now this. And James was so close, holding out arms so that Michael could touch, all endless blue eyes and a fleck of whipped cream on his lips…

There’d been something else, in those eyes. Not only the usual affectionate delight at the quirks of the world. Not quite surprise, not quite gratitude, not quite desire, but an emotion someplace in between all three.

“Thank you,” James’d said again, Michael’s fingertips resting along his forearms, leaving glistening streaks of helpful cream, and then, with a sudden coruscating grin, cheeky and serious, “of course, we can’t actually go down to the restaurant for dinner like this, now that I’m covered in slime and can’t feel my wrists, so, room service? There could even be drinks.”

“Slime, indeed,” Michael said, and got up to find the room service menu. “Don’t touch that. It’s healing you. I can’t drink while I’m working.”

“Oh, well, then I won’t either,” James had said, utterly comfortable, and they’d ended up with fish and chips for Michael, on the basis that both would be difficult to get too badly wrong, and grilled chicken for James, on the basis that wardrobe demanded he not gain weight. James had regarded Michael’s golden-brown fried plate with mournful eyes when it’d arrived, and then turned the eyes on his own plate. Michael’d been mildly amazed the chicken hadn’t taken note of that gaze and instantaneously spontaneously transmuted into whatever James desired. He’d certainly be willing to. If he were James’ chicken.

He considered, not for the first time, that this assignment might in fact literally drive him insane.

And then he watched James take a bite of food, small neat teeth and red lips and eyes that closed for a second while he swallowed, and Michael’d caught himself sitting there with a crispy strip of fish frozen halfway to his mouth, for far longer than could be excused by any reasonable words.

James had sighed, and muttered commentary about missing pistachio ice-cream, and garlic bread, and pasta. “I was meant to be on vacation. Good whiskey. Pesto sauce. Cream cakes. I miss food.”

“Vacation?”

“Mmm. My gran’s bacon sandwiches and tea with extra sugar. I don’t know how you drink black coffee. Those superpowers of yours, maybe. Shortbread and strawberry scones. Proper Scottish breakfasts, with porridge and eggs and ham…”

“How are you a model, again?”

James had widened summer-sky eyes at him. “Trade secret. If I told you I’d have to kill you. Or feed you my scones.”

“ _Your_ scones.”

“I’m very devious in a kitchen. I sabotage fellow models with baked goods. And privately weep over not being allowed to eat any of my own creations. Epic tragedy. Shakespearean in scope. _Macbeth_ with sugared pastries, it is; can all great Neptune’s ocean wash this icing from my hands...”

James was trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes were laughing, giving it all away; Michael threw a chip at him because it felt like the only logical response, and James caught it adroitly, popped it into his mouth, and promptly began stealing more crispy-fluffy fried potatoes from his plate, making thoroughly debauched and sinful noises of pleasure while consuming each theft.

Dinner, laughter, the curious amber gleam of hotel lamplight; the way that James’ sweater sleeves slid down, tumbling toward bruised flesh and tender skin, and Michael leaned over and pushed them back up for him without thinking twice. Discovering a Lord of the Rings film marathon on television, James quoting lines along with wizards and elves, happily unembarrassed. James yawning, drifting closer to him on the sofa, shoulders touching; James asleep, head on Michael’s shoulder, hands supported in Michael’s own.

He’d sat there shocked and wanting and trembling inside with colliding needs, and James had possibly somehow sensed all the conflict, because long eyelashes had lifted and James had taken the hands away and sat up and thanked him again and stumbled, yawning, into the suite’s bedroom, not looking back at him along the way.

Michael’d been tempted to hurl the remote at the uncaring pipeweed-smoking hobbits on the television screen, but had refrained.

Lying there in the dark, stretched out across the overly cushioned sofa, alarm set to wake him to check on James in two hours or if any of his equipment detected a change in the room’s occupancy, atmosphere, or temperature, he’d shut his eyes and, for a second, let himself imagine that it’d been real, the way James’d smiled at him, the way they’d shared food, the weight of that head on his shoulder. He wanted all of that, with James; he wanted it all to have been a date, a real relationship, the kind of evening that might end with a kiss, might lead to them sleeping entwined in that bed instead of himself out here with the company of the clinging sofa-cushions and the blinking red lights of sensors installed.

He was here to keep James safe. The thought was cold, at first: a client, an assignment, and if James was friendly toward him, that just meant that James was a good person, the kind of person with whom it was easy to be friends, the kind of generous human being who’d buy dinner for his bodyguard and over-tip the hotel staff on purpose.

But he _was_ here to keep James safe. That was true. And he wanted to, wanted to in a way that was more than professional pride or determination to complete a task. He wanted to stand next to blue eyes always, knight to liege lord, and throw himself in front of flying spears when or if they came. He wanted to promise James his loyalty, his dedication, his heart.

Michael’d breathed out, very slowly, in the night. He couldn’t give James all of that, not out loud. But he made the vow anyway, in silence. The tiny red sensor-lights flashed, in answer: witnessed.

No flying spears had happened, that night or any other. Not so far. Not unless one counted near-hypothermia, bruised wrists, and general exhaustion from long days and hotel nights. Michael, whose job required him to count all of these and look for patterns, stood ten feet from James, two days later, and, yes, glowered.

There was a dark-haired man lurking around the other side of the set, behind the bank of lights. Michael’d spotted him a few moments ago, walking serenely through the equipment as if he had a right to be there. He kept looking at James and grinning; Michael found himself eyeing every motion, shifting his weight into readiness, muscles tensing instinctively. The man hadn’t done anything, and no one else seemed bothered by his presence; but he didn’t appear to have a purpose on set, and he’d not been in Michael’s dossier of important persons around the shoot, and Michael’s senses were tingling.

He wandered, with studied casual motion, closer to that side of the room. Observed James trying on a pair of plastic-framed professorial glasses, felt the now-standard bolt of sheer lust down his spine at James doing anything at all, noticed the dark-haired newcomer smirking at James and settling in, leaning lazily against a wall.

Something concealed in the pieces of today’s wardrobe? Tactile poison? Needle-pricks? Or simpler: waiting for James to finish and turn and find a weapon at his face, too fast for anyone to intervene?

Michael felt the resolution like ice along his spine, solid certainty in his bones: he would intervene. He’d be there. His heart beat with it; the promise echoed on at least two levels, maybe more, all the contracts he’d willingly entered into, and the adrenaline sizzled, ready.

James shifted, faced the camera, did a profile or six, played with the glasses. On, off, held loosely in one hand. Hadn’t noticed his audience, or was too professional to let any flicker of emotion show. He did glance at Michael, just a quick dart of eyes; Michael wasn’t sure how to read that expression, and eased a few feet closer to his target, within pouncing distance.

“Okay,” the skinny boy called from behind the camera, “James, that was gorgeous, that last one, one more to make sure?” and James did that little half-turn again, looking up over his shoulder, smiling, slipping the glasses away into a pocket; he looked lovely and inviting and approachable, a snapshot out of time, the stranger on a train who’d draw every single eye with even the most ordinary of movements.

The photographer applauded. The director announced the end for the day, over the applause, and ordered them to enjoy the upcoming union-mandated day off, before they all resumed.

The dark-haired lurker applauded, too. Michael’s fingers curled in on themselves, into fists.

James dropped the pose, laughing; tossed the glasses to a wardrobe assistant. Still with ingrained grace, flowing between movements; but there was a difference between James on camera, constantly aware of angles and lighting, and James relaxed, natural and unconsciously beautiful.

James looked over and caught Michael’s eyes, and heart, with his. Michael couldn’t look away.

And in that second the other man moved.

Michael moved too, instantly, but knowing he was seconds off, distracted, horrified.

He had long legs. Training. Emotion. Used it all.

He knocked the threat to the studio floor with an inelegant sweep to the back of unprotected legs, and put a knee in the small of his back, and looked up at James.

James was absolutely wide-eyed, gazing at him, lips parted as if to say something; but he didn’t, only ran his tongue over that bottom lip, unthinking sweep of shining pink, and Michael wanted to fall into all the blue and never come up for air.

The crew had paused in the middle of dismantling the lighting rigs to stare. A few of them seemed to be commenting on his technique.

“James,” complained the person he was kneeling on, voice muffled by the floor, “call your attack panther off, honestly, this really hurts,” and James winced and got a vaguely guilty look at the back of those eyes. Michael blinked.

“Ah,” James said, “Michael...this is Benedict. He’s harmless. Well, other than the potential for alcohol poisoning if you let him buy you drinks. He’s a friend. Benedict, say hi to Michael. My…” A pause, infinitesimal, but audible to Michael’s ears if no one else’s. “...security.”

“Your security’s dislocated my _arm_.”

“I have not,” Michael said, and leaned a little more weight on him: but I could. “James, you know him?”

“Friend,” James repeated, raising eyebrows. “Occasionally annoying. Does dragon impersonations if you feed him gin and tonic. Stands in my light.”

“One time,” Benedict said. “One _time_. And Bryan yelled at me for an hour and told me to learn from you. See if I ever work with you again. James, I love you, make him let me up.”

“Benedict just did a major American campaign,” James said, to Michael. “Commercials and everything; I’m sort of jealous. You can let him stand up now. Or whenever, really, this is good for his ego.”

Michael, resolutely not ashamed of his reaction--if this Benedict was going to show up on a set where James’ safety was at risk and act suspicious, then he deserved every bruise of the response--but angry with himself for his initial slowness and with James for not warning him and with Benedict for using the word love, got up and hauled the supposed friend up as well, with entirely necessary roughness.

“Thank you,” Benedict said, and then looked Michael up and down, consideringly. “Not bad. You’ve got good cheekbones. And shoulders. Pity about the teeth.”

Michael displayed them at him. “You could end up back on the floor.”

“You two,” James said, “stop that,” and they both looked at him. Automatic. It was that voice. Highland sunrises and bagpipes skirling in the wind. “Benedict, he’s not just being overprotective, this was Derek’s autumn contract before it was mine--”

“Oh,” Benedict said. “ _Oh_. James--”

“--and, Michael…” James was blushing, barely noticeable under the make-up but present to someone used to cataloging details, minute shifts, giveaway tells. “That...well, that was really fucking impressive, is what that was. Thank you.”

Michael couldn’t say _you’re welcome_ , because it was his job; couldn’t say _it’s my job_ , because he’d not been thinking of the job when he’d reacted. He stood there without answering, simply looking at James; and James blushed a bit more, pink washing over all the freckles, and didn’t flinch from his gaze.

Benedict glanced from James to Michael and back, grinned an incredibly evil grin, and said, “James, you know I didn’t mean it about not working with you again, I’d love to work with you again, you’re absolutely brilliant, maybe I could even jump in on this one, I’d do it for free, and Matthew’d probably love to have both of us at once…”

Michael had a brief but intense vision of himself ripping Benedict’s arms out of their irritating sockets. The man couldn’t model with no arms, after all. Both of them at once. Hell.

He realized he was clenching his jaw so tightly it hurt.

Professional, he thought. Be professional. You’re here to do a job. Act like it.

Benedict and James shared the same job. Could swap stories, commiserate, reminisce. A world that Michael would never be part of, not that way.

James was watching his face, though those remarkable eyes dropped momentarily to the cold flat floor before lifting again. Michael wanted to apologize, and then wondered why, and for what, and whether he should say it anyway.

“Right,” Benedict said, “you have a day off tomorrow, buy me a drink and tell me how you ended up taking Derek’s magazine spread when you know what he did to Owen when they worked together, and also tell me why you didn’t tell me you needed a fucking bodyguard, James, especially one with teeth like ten great white sharks throwing a party,” and Michael begrudgingly awarded him some mental points for caring about the important things first, and then said, “Owen?” because that hadn’t been in his dossier either.

“Matthew’s a friend,” James said, sidestepping Michael’s question, “and Derek quit, and I wasn’t busy. Pub? Two blocks down the road?”

Michael glared at Benedict. Benedict said, gratifyingly swift as far as comprehension, “Owen ended up with two broken legs because Derek thought he was stealing too much camera attention in their double shoot, except no one ever proved anything, because it _could’ve_ been just ice, y’know, like the sky might be blue,” and then they both stared at James.

“Matthew asked,” James said, in a tone that proclaimed _stop talking about this please_ over a layer of steel, “and I’m not going to say no to a friend. I might also start sharing stories about certain friends’ underwear modeling days. Benedict.”

“We need a lot more drinks before we do that,” Benedict observed, and Michael very carefully fit this new information into a tidy shelf in his head and regarded it dispassionately, because if he didn’t he was afraid he’d march James back to the hotel suite, bundle him up in blankets, and then shout at him for being so stupidly loyally careless with his own well-being.

Instead they ended up at the pub. Where the lighting was dark, and the furniture was wood, and heads turned the second that two male models plus Michael walked through the door.

Michael hated the place on sight. It made the spot between his shoulderblades itchy. Too many potential hazards. Unfamiliar terrain. No clear exits. Forests of barstools to serve as weapons.

He perched on the outside of the dimly lit booth, managed an occasional sip of ginger beer, listened to Benedict scolding James about not keeping in touch, and wished rather desperately that he had an internal code that’d allow him to drink on duty.

“--and Michael agrees with me,” Benedict concluded. “Look at him. James, you’ve even made your _bodyguard_ paranoid.”

Michael considered this. Fair enough, he decided, though his concern was admittedly more than slightly personal at this point.

“You do realize,” James said, and finished half his pint, “that I can in fact take care of myself. Make intelligent informed decisions. Avoid suspicious icy patches in front of my hotel.”

“You’re, what, five feet tall,” Benedict said, and got them another round, “and you don’t like hurting people if you can help it.”

“Depends on how much the person deserves it, doesn’t it,” James said, meaningfully, and took Benedict’s beer away and finished it, evidently just to prove the point. Michael opened his mouth. Shut it. Wasn’t his place to keep James sober, only to keep James safe.

Except. Except James tipsy might not be able to run with him if need be; might not follow instructions if they had to be given. Might in fact end up broken and bleeding on black ice in the street.

The chill went all the way through his body, down to his toes and up to the top of his head. He watched James flick the empty glass back at Benedict and then reach to pick up his own, and all at once he couldn’t handle that, not those thoughts, not those possibilities, and his hand stretched itself out without any conscious instruction and appropriated James’ glass.

James regarded this theft with some astonishment, but there was a smile playing around the edges of his eyes, glinting treasure in the ocean depths. Even more so when Michael drained the half-pint and set it down firmly.

“Thought you didn’t drink on duty.”

“I do what I have to,” Michael told him, “to protect you. Even from cheap beer. Tell them you want something with more character, next time.”

“Hey,” Benedict said. “I bought those.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at him--yes, and?--and Benedict sighed and went back to the bar. James looked at his very empty glass, then at Michael’s hand, then set his own hand on the table, so that their fingers met over aged uneven wood. “You do take good care of me.”

“Why’d you take this job? If you knew you might get hurt?”

James sighed. Tapped fingertips over the wood, against Michael’s, finding words. “Why’d you take yours? Same question.”

“Not the same. I get paid for being in harm’s way. You don’t.” He couldn’t possibly be drunk off half a pint of terrible beer, but he felt as if he were regardless, or maybe that was just the effect of James’ touch. The flavor of bitter wheat and the time-polished greyness of the table flooded his senses; he thought he’d remember this moment forever, the moment when James rested those restless fingertips at last, very lightly, over his.

“It’s what I said,” James said, softly, looking not at Michael’s face but at their hands. “I’d taken a few weeks off, or I’d planned to; Matthew’s an old friend, one of the first big-name fashion directors I ever worked with, back when I was fourteen and alone and scared. He used to give me cocoa during breaks. I don’t know any other directors who’d do that; mostly they want you to live on air and take drugs if you have to, to keep the weight off, to put in the hours. But he cared about me.”

Michael wanted to say: you’re amazing, you’re perfect, you’re braver than I ever imagined you’d be, I’m sorry I ever thought you’d be shallow or helpless, I didn’t know you, I want to know you if you’ll let me. He said, “So he knew he could call you,” because he was a suspicious bastard, and was paid to be.

There was a flicker of real honest anger in all the blue, at that. “It’s not like that.”

“No,” Michael said, “I’m sorry,” because he was. For the wound, if not the thought.

“He knew I needed the break. When he called he only asked if I knew anyone who’d come in on short notice. They have a deadline. And when Derek walked out promising to sabotage the person they’d use to replace him, well. That sort of thing gets around.” James did meet his eyes, this time. “I know why you’d think that, but I volunteered.”

Faced with boundless-horizon eyes, impossibly both iron-fierce and gently understanding, Michael said, “Sorry,” again, and meant it. “But...would other people know he’d call you?”

“Probably, but it shouldn’t matter.” James looked up as Benedict swung into view, balancing three pints, Michael noticed, this time. “If it wasn’t me it’d be someone else. And if it’s me, then it’s not someone else. So...it is.”

Michael swallowed, felt the heat in his gut that had nothing to do with the dreadful beer and everything to do with promises he’d made, to his employers and to himself, and said, “Not quite right, James, sorry.”

James looked surprised. Satisfyingly so.

“Not just you,” Michael said, “you and me,” and got a smile, not the camera-ready flare of invitation, but the same slow private curl of warmth that he’d seen in that wardrobe corner, flinging protective fabric around shivering shoulders. The one he’d been given while caring for injured wrists, back in a quiet topaz-hued hotel suite.

“You two,” Benedict said, and plopped down in the booth across from them. “Are you sure you’d not rather be back in the hotel room?”

“Maybe yes,” James said, and picked up one of the pints and considered it while Michael tried to reassemble abruptly demolished focus. “What’s this one?”

“I don’t remember. Also, here, shots.”

“I extremely don’t do tequila.”

“Yes you do. I have photographic proof that you do. And then you let me talk you into wearing the--”

“I will literally pay you to stop fucking talking,” James said, and then proceeded to distract Benedict with the tequila shots after all, a tactic that became far too successful in the end, the two of them flushed and laughing and trading stories about the worst wardrobe requirements they’d had, feathers glued into uncomfortable places and glittery eyeshadow and a lace-up boot campaign that’d evidently required James to be naked except for a strategic stocking and the contractual footwear. Michael, who’d managed to ignore the newly arrived alcohol right up until that point, grabbed his untouched pint and drank most of it, because there was no other way he was going to make it through the evening.

This one tasted surprisingly acceptable. The flavors of nuttiness and spice and smoke lingered on his tongue. Caramel, he thought. James.

Who was leaning against him, pink-cheeked and lopsided and beautiful; James didn’t even get drunk unattractively, Michael concluded. Not like himself, with his tendencies to become physically attached, arms around shoulders and a grin that said mine, back off and the flip side of angry loneliness when he didn’t have anyone, the kind of nights that ended with himself and a toilet and the headache of knowing he’d wake up with a hangover and a failed dream about silver screens and cinema stunts, and no one waking up beside him, no one who’d kiss him and rub his temples until the pain went away.

James probably didn’t even get hangovers. James, right now, looked luscious and alcohol-flushed and suggestible, all rumpled dark hair and enormous eyes and lips permanently on the verge of laughing. The twin freckles twinkled on the bridge of his nose; that nose was, Michael decided, that one perfect imperfection everyone said was part of every great beauty, something irregular and striking, and not textbook-flawless. James’ nose was a fraction too large and the freckles were asymmetrical and he had very slightly crooked teeth, and he was mesmerizing, every glorious pixie-sized inch of him hypnotic, and utterly out of Michael’s mundane and hopeless reach.

At some point he’d finished the beer. He blinked at the empty glass. That couldn’t be good.

Professional, he thought, and looked away, scanning the crowd. It was easy to look away; James and Benedict were talking animatedly about a mutual acquaintance, no one Michael’d ever heard of, and they were obviously good friends, and they were spectacular together, Benedict’s longer leaner lines contrasting with James’ shortness and boundless energy. Any director would want them. Both of them, together.

He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this, and he couldn’t be, not now, not with a threat given name and treacherous inclinations. He wasn’t unaffected, unfortunately--and he hated himself a little for the lapse, for all the lapses since signing on, every way he was allowing the level of risk to rise--but he was reasonably confident he could still get himself and James out of the pub with no injury to James and only minimal injury to himself, if he had to fight.

James likely wouldn’t want to leave Benedict behind. Michael gritted his teeth and recalculated, considering various scenarios: acceptable injury to himself, minimal injury to Benedict, no injury at all to James; alternately, acceptable injury to himself and Benedict, minor damages to the pub interior, and still no injury to James. He could live with that.

And then he heard his name, very softly; his name in that voice, and a hand warm on his shoulder, and he spun around to find blue eyes inches from his, apologetic and intoxicated and extraordinary. “We’ve been ignoring you,” James said, accent even richer now, tangling all the syllables in burnished velvet, dark and seductive and sensual as bonfires in the night. “I’m so sorry. It’s just I’ve not seen him for months, and he’s worried about me, and I’ve been trying to reassure him…”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

“I do, though.” Firelight, glowing through all the words. Smoky crackles of flame bronzed with sincerity. “I did say thank you, earlier. I meant it. I can...I feel safer. With you here.”

Benedict wasn’t paying attention, absorbed in trying to drain the last dregs from the bottom of his glass. Michael turned to face James more fully, and they were, just for an instant, the only two people in the world. “Do you?”

“Yes.” James didn’t look away, and all at once seemed less tipsy than Michael knew he was. The words weren’t important, floating on the surface; what mattered was the next breath, and the one after that, and the way James’ knee was bumping his under the ancient beer-sticky table.

“You said you needed a break.” It was a question. Those thoughts swam up anew, uninvited and monstrous: James with pneumonia, James in the hospital, James exhausted and cold and not eating enough…

“I’m all right.” James’ knee nudged his again: I’m here. “I’m only tired. I’d been doing shows, runway work, back to back, New York, Tokyo, Paris...but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Better than when I was starting out, anyway. These days I can afford to say no. Sorry, that sounded horribly fucking arrogant, sorry, but...”

“Yes,” Michael said, “completely self-centered of you, awful, really, stepping in to help a friend like that,” and the answering smile lit up every darkened corner of the room.

“James,” Benedict said from the other side of the booth, “just kiss the man, already, unless you want me to tell him the story about you agreeing to wear the--” and then stopped, jocularity dying away. “James. Over there.”

Michael followed his gaze, the question--you agreed to wear what?--dying away unvoiced. The person Benedict was scowling at possessed dark hair and a ferret-like face, not exactly unhandsome but unpleasant; he was talking earnestly to two men, one tall and one short, both with muscles that suggested hard physical labor, and tattoos that, at least in the case of Tall, very literally said _Not A Nice Guy_.

James said, “We’re not talking about the corset and stockings in public, and anyway I had offers from at least three--” and then stopped.

Michael looked at his face, and put all the questions, the ones pertaining to corsets and exactly what did happen when James consumed tequila, on hold. “That’s him.”

“Yes.” James took a deep breath. Set down his last shot, untasted. “Him. Here.”

“What do you want to do? We can leave.”

They should leave. Now. Before the threat escalated. Said threat hadn’t glanced their way; he seemed busy talking to--arguing with--Tall and Short, complete with emphatic hand-waves and furrowed brows. He did look evil, Michael decided, and mentally labeled the man Evil Derek, because anyone who could hate James had to be evil, and also because the beer wouldn’t let him come up with anything less biased.

“They don’t look happy.” James was following every movement, head tipped to one side, intrigued. “I think he’s trying to get them to do something…”

“Do you want me to go over there?”

“And do what? Punch him in the face, unprovoked? He’s not done anything to me yet.”

Nothing we’ve got fucking proof of, Michael thought. Not yet. And what if he hurts you, what if I can’t stop it? Will that be proof? “Why would he be here?”

“I can’t think of any good reasons…” They all watched as the Evil Derek said something, voice rising, though not enough to be heard; Tall and Short looked at each other, then took a step closer to him, and Short put out a finger and poked him in the chest. Not a promising sign, that.

“He might be in trouble,” James said, and tapped fingers on the shot glass; thinking, Michael knew, because he knew all of James’ physical cues, or was learning them, every last speaking gesture.

“Are we going to cheer them on?” Benedict was, Michael concluded, fairly far gone. James, for his part, was tracking the scene intently, but Michael couldn’t see his eyes, and couldn’t tell how far past cheerfully buzzed and into concerningly intoxicated they might be.

“I could applaud,” Benedict said, contentedly watching Tall lean down and loom over his target, “but they might notice us.”

“No,” James said, also watching, “we’re going to help.”

“Them? Yes, absolutely, if impressively bloodthirsty for you--”

“No. Him.”

Benedict boggled at James. Then whispered, to Michael, “I’m so sorry about this, I think I forgot he’s kind of a lightweight…”

“James,” Michael said, and actually reached out to touch James’ cheek and get him to look back, a gesture he could blame on concern and the whole complicated night, “how drunk are you?”

“I can hear you, you realize,” James said to Benedict. “And, Michael...don’t worry.”

“ _That’s_ worrying,” Benedict contributed helpfully.

“Not talking to you. Michael, if I go over there…”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Michael said, and realized too late how much that phrasing gave away.

“Neither do I,” James agreed, “so you’ll have to help, won’t you,” and those eyes were laughing, positively wicked but serious as well, a fact which sunk in as James slithered bonelessly past Benedict, out of the booth, and towards the bar.

“We’re going to die,” Benedict announced, in sepulchral tones.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael said, with feeling, and launched himself to his feet, and ran.

James was talking to the taller man when he arrived, all expressive hair and exuberant hands; saying something about pubs and friendly bar stools and drinks that’d be pleased to be drunk, and everyone in the immediate vicinity seemed to be regarding him with the same expression of bemused incredulity.

“James,” Michael hissed, and put a hand on his shoulder, “we’re going now,” because he could read situations, and this one was about to turn ugly. Even James’ charm could only hold off the inevitable collapse for so long. Eventually they’d all wake up and start throwing punches.

“Please. Come on.”

“Not quite yet,” James said, “I was offering to buy them drinks,” which might’ve even worked, except the Evil Derek chose this moment to say, from behind James’ shoulder, “New boyfriend? Excellent body. Shame about the teeth.”

“I like the teeth,” James said, while Michael wondered why that mattered so fucking much to everyone; and then James said, “and he’s my bodyguard,” and suddenly the entire pub became very interested.

“You hired a bodyguard?” The Evil Derek was looking Michael up and down with open amusement. “Were you that scared of me? To be fair, I was trying to pay these gentlemen to saw through the chair legs on your set, day after tomorrow. They keep saying no.”

“You offered us money,” grumbled the shorter man, “to hurt someone. Someone we ain’t never met.”

“Yeah. And not even that _much_ money.”

“So you’re saying if I paid you more--”

“Not hurting him,” said the taller one, “he never did nothin’ to us. ’Sides, the kid’s adorable.”

“Kid?” James said, eyebrows going up. “I’m very much not.”

“Really?” Tall looked interested, at that. “Hey, you did that one thing, with the boots, that’s you in that picture, ain’t it--”

“Oh, you’ve seen that one!”

“Don’t make this worse!” Michael said, and tried to drag James away again.

Both Tall and Short looked at Derek. “We don’t think we like you,” rumbled Tall, “and he seems like a nice guy,” and drew back a fist.

The bartender, with great presence of mind, ducked behind the bar.

James sighed, and stepped in front of Derek.

Who looked at him with complete shock, and then tried to punch him in the face, because some people had no sense of gratitude.

James ducked, but both Tall and Short let out simultaneous growls of rage, and waded in.

From there the fight turned into a free-for-all. Classic cinema-style pub brawl, every possible cliche in play. Broken tables, stool legs, bottles. People not even involved simply leaping in for the hell of it. The tang of alcohol and sweat and bodies joyously pounding away at each other. Michael ducked a flying pint glass, heard the musical shattering as it hit the bar, and kicked someone he didn’t recognize in the stomach, sending the man to the floor. James threw him a grin, through the melee. Shouted, “Still less than ten feet from you!” and Michael, absurdly, wanted to laugh, even while calculating the best possible escape path.

Benedict, he noticed, was showing astounding common sense and had crawled under a nearby table, from which spot he was assisting by tugging at unwary ankles. James, on the other hand, actually could fight, and was, right there at his side. More: James was _good_.

Not the kind of good that came with training and hours of rehearsed footwork; no, James was good in the way that only someone who knew about pub fights and dirty tricks could be good, someone who understood when to duck and when to kick hard and who had experience not in elegant forms but in the simple straightforward goal of taking out an opponent before the person could do the same to him.

James caught his eye; Michael ducked, and James threw a punch over his shoulder and straightened up, and then stepped sideways and let Michael fling a piece of bar stool--he had his standard concealed handgun, and the knife up his sleeve, but he didn’t want to kill anyone, and pulling a weapon was the quickest way to get there accidentally; besides, the bar stool’d just ended up in his hands--into someone’s knee.

They moved in sync, together. In flawless rhythm. As if they’d practiced; but they hadn’t, they never had, and it was still perfect, adrenaline and exhilaration and the certainty of being understood.

Despite everything, the very present threat and the violence and the furnishings being hurled through the air, Michael found himself glancing at the way James moved, all compact power and precision; at the way those muscles bunched and flexed and shifted under confetti-freckle skin, and he might be the most turned on he’d ever been in his life, he thought, right then.

James slid under the table and grabbed Benedict; got up, found Michael’s side again, and dodged an explosion of glass. “Think we should go?”

“Definitely!”

“Door, then?”

“Where’d you learn how to fight like this?”

“You didn’t actually read my bio when you took this job, did you?”

“Do you want me to apologize _now?_ Get down! Or drop him!”

James tossed him an annoyed glance, didn’t drop Benedict, but did listen.

“Did you think I couldn’t take care of myself? I told you I could!”

“Can we skip this subject for the moment?"

“Maybe if you teach me that last move! Was that the ballet training, there?”

Benedict popped his head up. “You do ballet?”

“Shut up!” Michael said, and heard James say “Not now!” at exactly the same time, and that burning desire to laugh bubbled up again, all fierce and elated; he knew, seeing that matching grin, that James was feeling it too.

They found the door, shoved Benedict out into the cool starry night, blue frostbitten silken air like victory in lungs; Michael, breathless, knowing he had bruises but not registering any of them yet, reached out for James, instinctively checking for injuries, for any sign of pain in those brilliant eyes.

“I’m all right,” James said, but put his hand over Michael’s, on his shoulder, “I’m not hurt, are you--”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Benedict offered from his spot on the ground, “I’m fine, too.”

“Right,” James said, not looking away from Michael. “We should--oh, fuck!”

“What?”

“Derek,” James said, and dove back through the door.

 _“What?!”_ Michael said, and plunged in after him.

Several eventful minutes later, they reemerged. James was gasping for air and supporting his nemesis with one shoulder; Michael could feel the bruises coming up on his cheekbone, on his thigh, but the person between them was worse off, blood painting his nose and mouth, and he whimpered when James dropped him on the pavement.

James hit the ground right after, knees giving way, too fast for Michael to catch him. Michael’s heart nearly stopped.

He flung arms around James, under the far-off silvery stars. “James? Look at me!”

“Still--okay,” James managed, between breaths. “Boot--said hi to my stomach--it’s not bad, it just hurts--when I--try to breathe--”

Michael growled a few choice profanities, in Gaelic and German and good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon, at that. Propped James up in one arm; tugged up the evening’s heavy sweater, once a blue that’d almost matched sapphire eyes, now a disaster of holes and dirt and alcohol and blood.

Blood?

James clearly saw the look in his eyes. “It’s fine--it’s not mine--what about you?”

“What _about_ me? Here--” He set fingers over pale skin, pressing lightly, testing the amount of pain. Internal injuries, he thought. Broken ribs. Ruptured organs. “How much does this hurt?”

James shook his head, still trying to breathe.

“I don’t know what that means, James, you have to talk to me. How bad?”

“It doesn’t. Hurt, I mean. Not really. Just--wind knocked out of me. I’m okay.”

“Are you?” James didn’t seem to be badly hurt, not as far as he could tell; maybe it really was just the impact. He put a hand on James’ back, under the sweater, for support. His fingertips tingled. “Okay. Breathe, all right? With me. In, and out.”

James nodded, shut his eyes for a second, opened them. Put his head on Michael’s shoulder, and they sat there in front of the pub, the sounds of scuffling echoing from inside, everyone outside alive and whole.

Derek groaned. Sat up. Looked at James. James gave a little wave, exhaustedly.

“I hate you so fucking much,” Derek said, and lay back down on the pavement. Michael heard someone snarl, very softly; realized it was himself.

“That’s okay,” James said, and stopped for a breath, “I can’t stand your newest print ad--if we’re being honest--it’s just fucking awful.”

“I know,” Derek said. “They picked the worst possible photo. And Blue Steel, seriously, what kind of a marketing campaign is that for a fashion line, I sound like a Transformer.”

“Horrible.”

“Exactly. You know...we’re not friends. We’re not going to be friends. You’re too fucking nice. It’s disgusting.”

“Fair enough...”

“Stop trying to talk,” Michael said. Benedict, sprawled a few feet away, made a very rude gesture at Derek, who took no notice.

“Anyway. I don’t actually care if you’re okay, but...are you okay?”

James’ smile illuminated the night. “More...or less...thank you.”

“Why. Why would you even say that. You know I think you’re a moron. I wouldn’t come back for you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t care if you do this shoot. I have a catalogue offer in Milan. I’ll leave tomorrow morning. You’ll end up burned out and dying young anyway. Say fucking no once in a while, why don’t you.”

“I’ll try.”

“You might want to have someone check the heating vents on your set. And the edges on your props, the stuff on the floor, for the day after tomorrow, they might be extra-sharp. And, um, don’t use the shampoo in your hotel room. Just...y’know. In case.”

“Thank you.”

“Fuck off,” Derek said, and wobbled to his feet and vanished into the night and off to, presumably, Milan.

James watched him go, thoughtfully. “He’s not so bad.”

“What the fuck,” Benedict said, more loudly than Michael’s demand of precisely the same thing.

James shrugged, one-shouldered, supported by Michael’s arm and chest. “He didn’t have to tell us. Also, I guessed about the shampoo on the first day, when it tried to burn my fingers off when I opened the top. You have to appreciate the lack of subtlety. I don’t think I’d look good bald, though.”

“Christ,” Michael said, rubbing a hand over his face; he was sitting on the hard and likely filthy ground, his cheek was beginning to sting and swell, and he’d let James get into a fucking fistfight in a pub and then somehow make friends with their number one threat, the whole reason he was here. The stars danced above, mocking.

But he _was_ here, and James was leaning on him and breathing more easily now and smiling, warm and solid in his arms. And that feeling swept through his bones once more, as if this was where he’d always been meant to be, here and now at this moment in space and time.

James’ heartbeat, he realized, surreptitiously checking that pulse with his thumb, had fallen into rhythm with his own.

“I grew up in Glasgow,” James said. “Council estate. Not a good one. The kind of streets you don’t fucking walk down, at night. So you don’t have to go read the bio. That bit doesn’t get published anywhere, anyway.”

“You never told me that,” Benedict said.

“James,” Michael said, and touched his cheek, fingertips resting over skin, “can we get you back to the hotel, clean you up, let you rest,” and he knew he was saying _thank you, thank you for telling me, I want you at my back in any fight we’d ever get into, forever, I think I love you,_ and the smile surfaced in weary-ocean eyes as if James’d heard every word.

“Come on,” he said, and James nodded, but neither of them moved immediately; he let his hand stay in place, thumb rubbing unconsciously over all the freckles on that cheek, the scattering of them just below that wide blue gaze. Professional, he thought. Take care of your client. Take care of James. Why you’re here.

Even if he does smile at you like the dawn of the universe. Adrenaline. Endorphins. The artificial high. And you can’t.

When James blinked, long eyelashes swept down and brushed Michael’s thumbtip, and even that felt like a kiss, or like the moment before the kiss, blooming with promise, with anticipation.

“I need a shower,” Benedict groaned, shoving himself upright; they both glanced over, and the moment snapped. Unrecapturable; interrupted.

That was a good thing. Probably. Almost certainly. Had to be.

“Right,” he agreed, and kept the arm around James, easing them both to their feet. “We’ll get a cab.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay!

"Please, James," Michael said, not for the first time. "Please let me put you to bed."

"Not until I'm done.” James sounded tired, too tired. But determined. Implacable. "It's your turn to be covered in slime now."

Michael had already done his best by James, such as it was. Antibacterial cream on the scrapes on James' knuckles, of which there were only a few, mercifully, and all of them shallow. A vodka bottle from the minibar wrapped in a hand towel as an awkward icepack for his stomach. James had tucked it underneath his jumper, against his skin, laughed at the bulge it made, said, "I look like I'm about to birth a vodka tonic, or get nicked for shoplifting from the off-licence," and laughed some more.

Michael hadn't laughed, because he'd seen the first shadows of bruises rising on that pale skin, and the thought of seeing an entire bootprint there tomorrow made him sick with rage.

Thank God no-one had landed a punch on James' face, or worse. No black eye, no split lip. That'd saved Matthew an ulcer, James had mused, gazing out at the streetlights on the ride back to the hotel, sounding sincerely thankful. It had probably saved Michael a stroke.

But like James said. It was his turn to be covered in slime now.

The antibacterial cream was cold where it met Michael's cheek, although the slow, sweeping motions of James' thumb as he rubbed it in were certainly sparking bright fires all through his veins. James was touching him carefully, gently, like he cared. Michael wanted to enjoy it. He couldn't.

The first time they'd sat together on this hotel sofa, Michael had tended to the rope burns on James' wrists and, growing less-than-professional feelings aside, imagined himself in control of the situation. The person who would take care of James; the person who was vigilant enough to recognise threats, and competent enough to neutralise them.

That picture had tilted, tonight. Sharply.

Michael closed his eyes. It was no wonder the camera loved James. Warm lamplight and nighttime shadows played over his face at angles, gently taking turns. He was too lovely to look at, this close. Too precious. Too complicated.

"There's you done, I think," James said, breath ghosting over Michael's cheek. He tilted Michael's chin, presumably checking out his handiwork in the light; but if his intentions were different, if his lips were seeking Michael’s lips, might it begin like this? Michael pliant in James’ hands, pliant and damned, once and for all.

He didn't breathe or move or open his eyes until that hand dropped away.

Michael could see, then, that James was swaying where he sat. “Bed for you, and none too soon,” he said, drawing James to his feet and steadying him with an arm around his waist. The adrenaline had left them both, bringing exhaustion in its wake. Exhaustion, and in Michael's case, something dark and insistent that clawed at his chest no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

"Right." James yawned, leaning warmly into Michael's side, and made a valiant but doomed attempt at keeping the vodka-bottle-baby in place as they moved towards the suite's bedroom. "Tonight was fucking insane, wasn't it? Great though. Thank you."

"Thank me for what," Michael said, but James didn't hear him over another, deeper, yawn and the rustle of the sheets being drawn back, and Michael didn't really intend for him to anyway.

Tucked under the duvet, cheek pressed into the pillow, James looked warm and comfortable and safe. Michael hoped that was all true. He felt like he hardly knew, anymore. "James," he said softly. "I need to put my hand on your chest, all right? I need to check you're breathing properly one more time before I leave you to sleep."

James nodded, eyes closed, and Michael sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on James' sternum. His own eyes drifted shut, but even then Michael watched, feeling that gentle, perfect rise and fall long after James slept.

Dawn was grey and unkind, creeping in through the curtains and stealing over the sofa before Michael was ready, before his mind stopped racing, before he dreamed a single dream. But how could he blame it, they’d stayed out so very, very late, dawn had been haunting their steps, all the way home.... Michael tossed three pillows onto the floor and rolled onto his left side. The sofa was too short for his legs, too narrow for his shoulders, and too damn full of cushions. It made an easy target for his discontent, if not a satisfying one.

In the other room, James was sleeping soundly. A monitor perched on the coffee table told him so. James breathed quietly, but steady and true, and why shouldn't he? Derek was gone, off to Milan, and nothing he’d said had suggested there'd ever been a threat in the bedroom.

Michael's heart thudded sickly in his chest. He'd like to sweep that room again, right now, just to be sure. More than that, he'd really like to leave this suite and all the things in it behind - switch hotel rooms, or even hotels. Sabotage was an ugly business. Derek had seemed perfectly sincere, but Michael was paid to be suspicious, and apparently -

Apparently, he'd already not been suspicious enough. Dangers had slipped straight past him. He should only be grateful they hadn't slipped past James.

He could hear his breathing now, harsh and ragged, drowning out James' soft sounds on the monitor. Michael forced himself to hold a breath, to let it out slowly. To do it again. He wouldn't drag James out of his bed; he couldn't. James was worn and bruised and tired, had admitted that he’d been tired even before this job began. James deserved a night's - or day's, now - peace.

As hard as it was, Michael gave it to him, and even managed to sleep a little himself in the end.

The dreams weren't good.

Michael was awake when James stumbled sleepily through the door of the bedroom. The day was very nearly gone by then, the last vestiges of light bleeding behind the clouds. "Fuck, what time is it?" James asked, voice low and rough, accent swallowing the edges of his words.

It was what he would sound like if they were sharing a bed, if Michael woke him in the middle of the night accidentally, with stolen covers or restless legs, and had to soothe him back to sleep.

Useless information. Unnecessary. Inappropriate.

"Almost five."

"Fuck." James wandered towards the coffee-maker, paused when he got there, fingers tapping on the lid. "No, I don't think I will. Better to skip the caffeine, and just sleep more when I need to, yeah?"

"Yeah." It was true, although Michael would have agreed to anything to get James to skip the coffee, because those innocent-looking filter packs had been in this hotel room all along, and who knew what kind of handling they'd seen? If James did brew a pot, Michael would have to drink some before he did. No question. Should've been doing that from the beginning.

Clasping his hands behind his back, James stretched, rolling one shoulder after the other, strength and vulnerability and temptation all wrapped up in each movement. Michael swallowed, and looked away.

"Well," James said after a moment, oddly strained, "I'm sure I smell like a pub floor. I should shower."

Michael listened to the soft pad of James' feet on the hotel carpet; bare, he thought from the sound. Too cold, a part of his brain registered automatically, James should have on socks…. After he heard James pass, Michael looked up; when James reached the loo, he found himself suddenly on his feet, at the threshold in a few swift strides, gripping the edge of the door before it could close.

"...Yes?"

"I need to see all of it," Michael said roughly. "Soap. Shampoo. Conditioner. Everything you're going to use."

James' eyes were very steady as he regarded Michael, his body very still. "All right."

Body wash, facial cleanser, shampoo, conditioner. James lined up just four plastic bottles on the counter, where Michael imagined most models would line up dozens. James' body wash was a brand that could be bought at any supermarket; his conditioner and facial cleanser were a bit more high-end, but while Michael was less personally familiar with them, they seemed to look and smell as they should, and feel safe to the touch.

The shampoo was a tiny complimentary bottle provided by the hotel. Michael rolled it around in his palm. "You knew," he said, looking at the bottle, not at James. "You knew, and you didn't tell me."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"You knew he'd been in this room, or paid someone else to be. You knew about the other model, and the ice - you knew how his bloody mind _worked_.... You left me to fight this in the dark, and all I can think is that you just -” Michael threw up his hands. He realised, dimly, that he was shaking.

"I'm sorry," James said again. "You're right, and I'm sorry."

He was. Michael could hear the contrition in his voice, naked and honest, and when he finally, properly, looked at James, he saw that his shoulders were slumped, his face stricken. It didn’t help. An apology wasn't truly what Michael needed, and James feeling bad most certainly wasn't.

He needed for it never to have happened at all.

"I told you Matthew's a friend," James said. "I know you've probably been thinking he's some horrible tyrant, but he's just...." James sighed. "Incredibly stressed. Derek walking out meant having to reshoot everything he'd already done, in half the time, otherwise the location and tech costs would double.... And of course he suddenly had to factor in the cost of a bodyguard, for me. I know it was wrong, but when I found that shampoo, I was glad. Something I could take care of myself. No worry to anybody else."

"I would have made you check into another hotel," Michael said, evenly as he could manage. "One Matthew had never used for any of his talent before."

James' eyes met his in the mirror. "I realise that. I'm sorry. I know you care about - " James flushed, and his eyes dropped. "About doing your job well."

 _About me._ That was obviously what James had been about to say. Michael was distantly aware that this was a warning bell; those words shouldn't have been the first on his client's mind. His professionalism should never be an afterthought.

"You told me you felt safer with me," Michael said, raw, unable to stop himself. "Clearly I wasn't doing my job well enough for that to be true."

"You're saying I lied to you."

"No -"

"Then?"

"I'm saying, maybe you didn't realise it yourself."

He'd seen James angry before, but only for a brief, flickering moment. Maybe this was what it looked like when the anger took hold: James' face shuttered, his eyes hard, his lips pressed together as he decided which words to let out. "I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean," James said finally, quietly. "I knew I could jump into that fight because you'd be at my back. I could turn myself over to the cameras every day because I knew you had the rest of the room. But I also have a habit of taking care of things myself when I can. It's an old one. Not easily broken."

Of course he did. Growing up in that neighborhood, going to work at age fourteen... things James had shared with Michael that he'd never even shared with his old friend Benedict. Michael nodded now to show that he'd been listening then, and that he understood.

If only he could trust his voice. But Michael bit the inside of his cheek, because the words that threatened to escape weren't "I understand" or "I'm sorry, too." Instead they were about how useless he felt now, how useless he'd obviously been already, how gut-wrenchingly horrible it felt to fail, not simply at his job, but to fail _James_.

The mirror over the sink wasn't forgiving, and the fluorescent lights weren't either. James looked unspeakably weary, deep blue-grey shadows beneath his eyes, but Michael looked edgy, overwrought, out of control. And James had to see it as well: the deep lines on Michael's face. The breathing he couldn't quite steady. His restless hands, because try as he might, he couldn't stop turning that mini shampoo bottle in his palm, over and over again....

James took a step closer, reaching out. Like he was going to take Michael's hand in his, keep it safe, make him stop. "Michael -"

Michael flinched. Couldn't help it. There was a question in James' voice that he couldn't allow himself to answer, and an understanding he couldn't accept. James knew. He'd worked with protection services before; a bodyguard could be expected to have a serious conversation with his client in a situation like this, but not an emotional one. Michael was reacting like something else, something more. Something he couldn't be.

"It's fine. Everything's fine," Michael said, putting the shampoo down on the counter carefully, lining it up with all the other bottles. "You should take your shower now, and I'll - are you hungry? I can ring room service. What would you like? Same order as last time? Or something different?"

James was so expressive with his body, on or off-camera; even the lack of motion told a story, and he was unmoving now, shoulders set, hands back down by his side. Self-defence, Michael thought. Protection, but not retreat. James said, "I think I'll leave it to you,” each word carefully measured, as he began rucking the sweater he'd worn to the pub, the one he’d slept in, up over his head.

Michael left before he could pull it off.

Right. Deep breaths in an empty room, then Michael reached for the phone. Room service for dinner, followed by telly on the sofa: they’d done this before, but last time the evening had been a bright one, full of smiles and laughter and easy touches, and for Michael, the joy of discovery, as he’d learned precious new things about James.

It had not been a professional evening. This time, Michael would do better.

He ordered fish for them both - grilled, nothing fried for anyone, tonight - and steamed veggies, lightly seasoned, all in accordance with James’ diet, and all unlikely to remind Michael of the moment when James had first popped one of Michael’s stolen chips into his mouth, pure pleasure on his face, or how much Michael had wanted to inspire that look in other ways, if only…. He knew a dozen foods James would enjoy more, thanks to the litany he’d recited the other night, and would love to please James by treating him to one of those, but there was the rub. That wasn’t Michael’s job.

The meal arrived before James emerged from the shower, allowing Michael to discreetly taste-test everything for his own peace of mind, even though he knew, logically, that James was more likely to choke on a fishbone than be poisoned by Derek tonight.

Perfect. Something else to worry about. At least Michael’d been thoroughly trained in the Heimlich manoeuvre.

James came out of the bathroom in flannel bottoms and a tee, hair rumpled and towel-dried, looking more run-down than before he’d gone in. Michael’s fault, that. He gestured at the plates, saying, “It’s halibut,” just for something to say.

“Looks fresh.” Whether James liked it, hated it, or had been hoping for something else, Michael couldn’t tell. “Mind if I switch on the telly?”

“Go for it.” Background noise, distraction; James wanted to close the door on their argument, and Michael was ready to jump at the chance.

 _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ took them through dinner and beyond. They settled down on opposite ends of the sofa, the space between them aching like a wound in Michael’s side. His own fault: it wouldn’t hurt if he’d never got too close in the first place. Conversation did become easier as the evening wore on, and James proved happy to detail plots, character histories, and Federation politics when Michael asked for them - sometimes when he didn’t - but James didn’t recite any favourite lines along with the actors, and when he fell asleep around nine-thirty, it was on a helpful cushion, not Michael’s shoulder.

He hadn’t touched James since those hours just before dawn. It was like a physical shock to do so now, just a simple hand on his arm to wake him, with after-effects that lingered long after James went to bed.

The next morning brought a blue sky and a cold wind. James and Michael hurried from the hotel to the cab, then from the cab into the studio, where any hopes Michael might’ve harboured for James to be dressed sensibly were dashed. Worse, he found out exactly what Derek had meant about the props on the floor.

Artistically broken glass, glinting and sharp. Wicked-looking wires, some coiled in nasty tangles, others running like vines along the floor. Sawblades with jagged teeth, wirecutters with blades left open, nails and drill bits and other fierce metal implements Michael couldn’t even name.

They gave James a long herringbone coat, camel-coloured jumper and black trousers, and told him to take off his shoes.

"It's going to be fine." James was kneeling, rolling up his trouser cuffs. "Even if - what Derek said. I have good balance. I'm steady on my feet. It doesn't matter if anything's been tampered with, because I'm not going to step on anything."

"A threat was made regarding the props," Michael said, choosing his words and tone carefully. Formal. Unemotional. "The props should be removed and replaced."

"Money and time," James said, lifting his head, smiling tightly. "Let me handle this?"

Of course the answer was going to be yes, because he understood how much it meant to James. Michael should've rung Matthew last night, made his report, forced a change, removed the risk... but he hadn't, because James was loyal and resourceful and determined and independent, and Michael was still trying to have it all, James' happiness as well as his safety.

So Michael nodded, and watched with his heart in his throat as James picked his way through the minefield to take a seat in a small, spindly chair. The one whose legs Derek had tried to have sawn through, no doubt.

Nick lifted his camera. James transformed.

It was a beautiful, powerful dichotomy, Michael had to admit. James was fresh-faced and world-weary, his frown reflective, his slouch negligent, a man with power in this torture-room; but then there was the long, pale arch of his throat, and those vulnerable feet, and you weren’t sure if you should be afraid of him or for him, rescue him or run away….

A vicarious thrill for the magazine-buyer. Just another pointless feeling for Michael - what was he even here for, what was he going to do? Apply a tourniquet, when the moment came? He had to assume the news about Derek buggering off hadn’t made it back to Matthew yet, because if the shoot was as over-budget as James believed, Michael’s contract would have been cancelled already. He should consider himself be bloody lucky to still be here, considering he had no real role anymore and nothing to do.

Mouth closed. Eyes open. Michael watched.

His pulse spiked every time they had James switch positions. When they made him walk to the far corner of the set, then turn back, thoughtfully surveying the implements of pain; when they made him crouch down, fingertips balanced on the floor, inches from wire that was in all probability razor-sharp.

When they made James tilt back in that little chair, foot up on a stool, Michael snapped.

"No," Michael shouted, striding to the edge of the set. "No. That," he threw out an arm, wildly pointing, "is unsafe. This whole fucking set is unsafe! It's my job to make sure no harm comes to him, and that, that is an invitation to fucking harm! He could fall on one of those blades and sever an artery, he could slice himself open on that wire, he could puncture any part of his body on one of those damn rusty nails and get blood poisoning and die! Don't any of you fucking see that? Don't any of you care?"

Breathing hard. His voice very loud, very fierce, very Irish. People - Matthew, the set designer, one of the senior members of the crew - rushing over, talking on top of one another, reaching, placating.

"Mr. Fassbender, please -"

"We've met all union regulations and workplace safety guidelines -"

"A step back, if you would -"

Beyond them all, the one person he had eyes for sitting stock still, eye of the hurricane, saying, "Michael. It's fine. I promise. I'm keeping all the chair legs on the floor, look, my coat's hiding the back ones, so no-one can tell. See? It's fine."

Michael blew out a breath. "This is fucking unsafe," he repeated steadily, "and I'm glad you've got it all worked out, and I'm glad it meets all the bloody guidelines, but I can't stand here and watch another fucking second of this. Feel free to take it out of my pay, Matthew," he added viciously, but meaning it, some part of him thinking of it as one last offering to James.

There were too many people in front of him now; he could no longer see James, and that meant there was nothing worth seeing. Before anyone could show him the door, Michael left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go!

Predictably, he wasn’t gone five minutes before James came after him. And he’d used most of those minutes staring futilely out into the empty autumn afternoon. The sky burned above him, all blue and gold and pitiless.

He’d lost control. He’d lost professional distance. No sense of rationality. No excuse.

He was James’ bodyguard, and he was in love with James.

He stood on the other side of the door, and felt his hands shake.

Oh, fuck, fuck, he was in love with James, utterly completely head over heels for wicked sapphire eyes and boundless compassion and that surprisingly rough-edged competence, and he’d just walked out on the job and left James inside.

James was still barefoot, inside. With that floor. Those props.

James would come to find him, because James wasn’t the sort of person who’d back away from a difficult situation; no, James would be in the middle of it all, trying to do something, to take care of things, to help. Because that was the person James was. The person Michael was in love with.

The person he wanted to protect, was _supposed_ to protect, and the person he’d walked out on.

He spun around, and that naturally was the second James chose to emerge, letting the door swing shut behind him. Wearing shoes, Michael’s brain noticed distantly. No socks, footwear obviously pulled on  in a hurry, but shoes, yes, if not for navigating through the minefield then for after, across the cold grey studio floor and outside, onto external terrain.

Of course there were shoes. James was only excessively self-reliant, after all, not reckless without cause.

“So.” James leaned against the sun-splashed studio wall, settling comfortably next to Michael’s paralyzed ongoing personal crisis. Crossed his arms. “What was all that, in there?”

“I…” He could say he didn’t know. That’d be a lie. And he couldn’t lie to those eyes. “It wasn’t professional. I’m sorry. I was--I overreacted.”

“Yes, you did.” But James was smiling, as if that’d been the answer he’d wanted. “Care to tell me why?”

Michael sighed. Slumped back against the wall beside him. “I’ll find you someone else. More capable. I’ll even get Steve to offer Matthew a refund.”

“Not in fact an answer to my question.”

Michael turned to look at him, one shoulder propped on the wall, his other hand lifting to--to what? Reach for James? Pull him closer, all of that irritating persistence and kindness and laughter, and kiss him until all those words went away in the white heat of it?

He let his hand drop.

“I can’t,” he said, and then realized he’d said it out loud. James’ eyes narrowed. “You can’t what? You were worried. About the set. About me.”

“I’m paid to be worried about you--” Though he’d just essentially told Matthew that the money was irrelevant.

“That’s not all of why. Is it?”

So close, close enough to touch, oh God. “...no. But--James--I can’t. We can’t. I can’t want this, and you--”

“You think I don’t feel it too?” James pushed himself up from the wall. Took a step forward; his eyes shone very blue. “I do. Since that first day. When you mocked my vocabulary and I told you you were a superhero and you smiled.”

And Michael, desperate, hating himself and knowing he was doing the right thing, said, “You don’t. You can’t. It’s just--this happens, sometimes, we get trained about it, the adrenaline rush of the moment, the feeling of being safe with someone, attachments--you don’t want me, James, it’s just--the situation, and I can’t take advantage of you--”

“You think I want you out of some sort of gratitude?” Startlement, comprehension, hurt, billowing multifaceted layers through all the blue. “You think I don’t know what I want?”

“I--” He could reach for James, right then. Could set both hands on those shoulders and reel him in and kiss him until there was no doubt left, until James was flushed and trembling and malleable in his arms, or until Michael felt the same way in his.

And it wouldn’t be real.

“I think you can’t know.” His heart was shouting at him, unhappy wounded wordless cries. He was ruthless to it. Kinder, in the long run.

Had to be. Didn’t it?

“And I don’t want to hurt you.”

James looked at him levelly, for long enough to make Michael’s feet shuffle themselves and shift his weight, fretful under that sapphire scrutiny. Learning all his secrets, he thought; and he so badly wanted to give them all away, all the messy and lopsided and mundane pieces of his life; he wanted James to want to know whether he liked sunny days or rainy ones better, and that he could make a really excellent beef Wellington, and that he still owned his childhood Star Wars Ewok village somewhere…

“You’re a good person,” James said, and in that lochs-and-sunset voice the words were incontrovertible fact, shaped out of wind and crags and truth. “And I think you’re trying to do the right thing.”

“I _am_ \--”

“You’re wrong, though.” With a hand raking through his hair, destroying carefully styled waves. “I’ve had bodyguards before, on location shoots, when someone thought we needed that. They weren’t you.”

Michael’d had his mouth open. Couldn’t answer, as all the air left his body.

“Yes, I’m glad you’re here. Grateful, even. You--well, you tell me when I’m not--you were right. You are right, about the props. About me. I asked Matthew to move some of them. Further away from me, at least. And I told him...not everything, but that there was a threat, that some pieces might be a little too sharp, or tampered with. He about hit the ceiling. Wanted to know why the hell I’d walk out there this morning and not say anything. Or I think that was the question. There were a lot of colorful adjectives; kind of hard to tell.”

“You...told him…”

“You weren’t wrong about that.” James looked up at the windblown sky, down at the cracked pavement, quickly at Michael’s face, and away. “Melodramatic, fuckin’ yes, but not wrong. I...tend to think I can handle everything. I want to. But of course I can’t. Accidents happen; I have good balance, but I might’ve slipped, or a lighting rig might’ve fallen and knocked me over, and I could’ve landed on--”

“Stop. _Please_.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to say, you’ve actually made me think about it. About trying to handle everything. And what happens--who else gets hurt--if I can’t. And that’s important. Not fuckin’ easy, and I’ll probably get it wrong a lot, but.” Tired, wry, sincere. In that voice. In those eyes. “You make me want to try to lean on you. And that’s real. And that’s about you, and me, not the adrenaline or the endorphins or what the fuck ever you were saying. I know you feel it. We both do.”

Michael opened his mouth.

James added pointedly, “I make a living out of understanding body language, you know,” and Michael shut his mouth again. After a second, he managed, “Even if I did...I shouldn’t...you’re my client, James,” and he knew the words were a capitulation in every sense but one.

He’d never been this unprofessional. Never even unprofessional at all, since he’d accepted the job working for Steve, since he’d committed to actually having a job instead of listlessly contemplating the dreams he’d once imagined. He’d been comfortable, staying afloat, remaining detached.

But James made him want more. James made him want to be attached. He didn’t know if he could be.

More accurately, he knew he could be: he was already, beyond hope of ever extricating his heart. He just didn’t know how to live with that. How to reinvent his life a second time, around a new center that would, through no fault of blue eyes, destroy his reputation in his current career, his first attempt at rebuilding.

“Not your client after this week,” James said. “Not after tomorrow. Last day, tomorrow. Final snapshots, little interview bit--hometown, favorite color, all the stuff they run in the margin--and then we’re done. So.”

“So,” Michael echoed, mostly for something to say. His thoughts collided and spun in a dozen whirlwind directions, frantic and unclear.

“So I’m going back inside,” James said, “and we’re going to finish this shoot, and you can come, or not. Up to you.”

“James,” Michael said. “What--what _is_ your favorite color?”

James stopped mid-step, looked at him, didn’t quite laugh. There was hope dawning, sunrise barely visible behind blue eyes. “Black, actually. Not in a, y’know, haunt the graveyard and talk to skulls way. A warm kind of black, sort of brown, like you’ve worn a motorbike jacket for years and it’s comfortable and it knows how to fit you...like seriously good dark chocolate, or the sky when there’s a bonfire lit someplace...sorry, you weren’t asking for a dramatic monologue, there. And anyway I also like blue. And orange. Anything really.”

“I like your dramatic monologue,” Michael said, after a second. “I can see it.” He could. So well. Bonfires and autumn nights and cozy faded leather jackets and bittersweet cocoa and colorful scarves to stand out against the dark. Of course James liked black; James liked making the rest of the world, his directors and friends and wardrobe options, shine.

James smiled at him for that, and then took a hesitant step toward the door. “We should...I said I’d be back in five, and I’ve already given Matthew one near-heart attack today…he’s not docking your pay, by the way, he said you were right and I was an idiot and you have a job as long as you’re willing to, and I quote, put up with me...”

“I still shouldn’t’ve shouted at your crew. James…”

“We’ll happily blame it all on Derek, then. What?”

“I don’t know. I mean...I just...I need time. I never expected--I don’t know. And you’re still my client. Today. Tomorrow. Can we just--get through this? For now?”

A sigh, under the burning sunshine. But James met his gaze, and nodded. “For now. Michael?”

He waited. Tried to indicate words with his expression: yes, please, go on, I’m sorry, I don’t know, my life is a fucking mess and I’m pretty sure I love you and I don’t know what I’m going to do and I’ll always be here for you to lean on, I promise, you’re right about everything and it’s all real and I can’t right now.

Too complicated. James couldn’t possibly figure all that out from his eyebrows. Hell, Michael himself couldn’t figure all that out.

James did say, “What’s yours? Favorite color.”

“Blue,” Michael said, prompt and truthful, because that was a truth, and one he couldn’t deny. The answer might’ve been green, before he’d met a certain pair of eyes, before he’d found himself constantly unable to look away.

“...thanks for the compliment,” James said, getting the reason exactly right, and grinned.

They went back into the studio together. James walked through the door with Michael at his back. Kicked off his shoes, traversed his way across the now less ferocious set, and put a hand on the back of the spindly chair. Glanced at Michael, while young Nick fiddled with his camera lens settings and muttered to himself, and smiled again.

“Perfect,” Nick announced, “James, just stay there, that expression--” and started snapping. Matthew came over and said quietly, “First, don’t shout at my crew ever again. Second, I’ll give you a bonus if you tell me what you said to get him to take care of himself for a change. Third, I had someone fix the coffee machine. There’s coconut something over there, I don’t remember what.”

“Sorry,” Michael said, because the apology needed to be made, and “thank you,” and “he’ll think it’s interesting,” about the coconut, which made Matthew laugh before getting pulled away to cope with a budget spreadsheet.

Michael watched the set, watched James, and let that simple singleminded focus become his entire world. He could keep James safe. Today, and tomorrow. That was his job. The active threat might be gone, but accidents did happen, and other schemes might be in place, something Derek’d forgotten to mention, acts of last-minute petty jealousy. Today and tomorrow were about James, in need of rest and proper safeguarding, getting through this shoot. After that...would be after. This he could do now.

So he would. For James.

He’d ensure that coconut coffee was ready at the day’s end, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings, at last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you so much for the encouragement, comments, kudos--you guys're marvelous! *hugs & interestingly-flavored coffee for all*

Last day. If one wanted to think in terms of lasts. Michael was starting to hate the word. Sounded so final. Last. Over. Done.

He couldn’t imagine--literally couldn’t, had tried and failed--going a day without a glimpse of merry blue eyes and the scent of coffee in the air. Interestingly-flavored coffee. Never the same twice, but always new and delectable and delicious; and that was every day with James, every evening of Star Trek trivia or Irvine Welsh novels on a sofa, every ordinary routine that’d never be anything other than extraordinary with that smile at his side.

They’d spoken very little, that morning. There’d not been much to say aloud. All the words lay in the touch of James’ fingertips to Michael’s when Michael handed him hazelnut-toffee caffeine in the hotel room; in the nudge of their shoulders while riding in the car; in the smile James had given him, soft and radiant and nothing Michael’d ever seen in the pages of any catalogue, when Michael’d brushed an eyelash from one freckled cheekbone without pausing to think or second-guess the intimacy, and left his thumb resting over soft skin a few seconds too long.

A simple shoot today. No more props, no more elaborate set dressing, just James and the clothes. Michael hadn’t been privy to the conversation between James and Matthew; he didn’t know how the final decision about today’s outfit had been reached, but it was the first one he could wholeheartedly approve of. Sturdy black jeans and a ribbed jumper, grey like the very first one, but better in every way. It had heft and weight and looked properly warm, with sleeves so long they went on for miles. 

And in it, James looked like someone you just wanted to hold - not because he _needed_ to be held, or sheltered or protected, but because he radiated comfort and warmth and the desire to share.

He was playful, too, in a way Michael hadn’t seen before, not while the cameras were rolling. Giving the camera teasing, knowing looks, or long serious glances that all somehow seemed to whisper, _Too bad you can’t stay longer, one more second and I’ll be laughing, if you can wait I’ll share the joke…_

Michael wondered - didn’t want to ask, just sort of wanted to think it - if James had simply been told to do whatever he felt like, on this last morning. Young Nick was certainly uncharacteristically quiet, offering up none of the confusing babble that usually passed for his instructions. He seemed happy to click his camera and capture whatever he saw. 

It had to be good for him, Michael thought. Let James teach him just a little bit more about what the right model could actually make possible.

When James stretched those inordinately long sleeves down over his hands, then splayed them wide and held them up to his face, making a perfect, ridiculous frame for the camera, Michael knew he’d been right. His heart swelled huge in his chest, he wanted more than ever to be where James was, to catch those hands in his own and soak up their warmth….

An effort of will, he kept his feet firmly planted, didn’t rush in front of the camera, didn’t ruin the shot.

After lunch, James had the very last bit of the job to do, that short simple interview moment. The representative from the magazine dragged chairs over to one side and flipped on a tape recorder; James curled one leg carelessly beneath himself, sitting down, and Michael wasn’t the only one staring, because James casually relaxed and cozy and happy was the loveliest sight in the universe. Incontrovertible. 

No wonder the interviewer’d dropped the tape recorder. It hadn’t helped when James had been the one who’d bent over and picked it up, with a cheerful, “Oh, here, hope it’s okay?”

Michael had glared pointedly at the crew until they’d got back to dismantling the set. Bodyguards could be good for keeping unwanted ogling at bay, too.

Bodyguards. Was he? Still? Of course he was, through the end of the day; but he kept trying to picture that future without James in it, himself on another assignment. James would be half a world away, Tokyo or Paris or perhaps New York, no one ensuring that his hotel room was warm enough, no one caring enough to listen to impassioned Scottish-accented lectures about Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s leadership style…

Michael didn’t know how to be a bodyguard, how to give a client his full and undivided protective attention, when his attention would never be undivided anymore.

The interviewer was covering the basics, all the brief informational tidbits that’d be printed alongside a final photo or two, in the spread. Name. Age. Hometown. James smiled brilliantly, gave the man complete attention from those endless eyes, and charmed him into forgetting his next question. James also gave a one-word answer to that last one that offered no real information at all. Hometown, Glasgow. True, as far as it went. Michael knew more. Had been allowed to know more.

The interviewer had moved on to hobbies and likes and dislikes. James grinned, and talked gleefully about motorcycles and football and Star Trek and C.S. Lewis; admitted, smiling, that he found self-assurance a turn-on--Michael choked on air at the phrasing--and didn’t like celebrity glitz and nightclubs and all-night endless parties. Michael could’ve answered that one. James liked baking and staying in and watching television and falling asleep on someone’s shoulder on a sofa, safe and warm. He knew.

James was talking with his hands, big animated gestures that sculpted portraits out of the air; lips and eyebrows danced along, every part of his face mobile and alive and expressive, and he was absolutely everything spectacular, as if the universe’d set out to find Michael an ideal partner and outdone itself with the result. Ideally _im_ perfect, as well: stubborn and self-reliant and too ready to do favors for friends when already exhausted, and Michael wanted to argue with him and take care of him and jump on a motorbike with him and tackle him onto a sofa in the middle of a Star Trek episode and kiss him senseless.

And he couldn’t. He’d never see James again, except on a billboard or in a magazine or from a distance. Not unless he got another assignment working for Matthew, or, God, working with another model, and maybe that model would end up working with James…

The next question was about the next project. James ran a hand through his hair, stalling, remembering. Michael, watching, thought: he’s tired, can’t they see that, let him go, let him be done…

“Canada,” James said. “Montreal. Canadian Fashion Week. On the...tenth, I think, is when that starts? Two weeks. I’ve never been to Canada. Completely fucking excited.” And he even looked excited. Because James would never give anything less than his entire self, once committed.

Canada. In the winter, because the season’d be well into winter by then. Snow. Ice. James.

Michael realized his fingers’d curled in on themselves. Uncurled them, deliberately.

“Canada’s a long way from London,” the interviewer said cheerfully. “Going to miss us? Going to miss anyone special?”

Michael’s heart all but stopped.

James laughed, but there was a flinch hidden inside the amusement, single stiletto stab-wound buried deep down. “No. I mean, yeah, I always miss London, it’s home, but...no, no one, ah, like that…”

“Come on, a guy like you? You’re telling me you don’t have women--and men--falling over themselves to ask you out?”

James had carried on smiling, willing to talk, but his eyes weren’t as happy any longer. Stiffness behind the sapphires. New walls. “You’d be surprised. But...no...there was someone I thought maybe...but he said he needed some time, needed to think…”

“Ouch.”

“No, not like that.” Annoyed now, a snap of volcanic fire in jewel-blue depths. Michael wanted to smile, or to cry. James, defending him. “He had good reasons. And I said I’d wait. So I am. And if he doesn’t say anything, then I’ll still go to Canada and do my job, because that is my job, which is why we’re fucking here, so ask me about that. Next question.”

The interviewer stared at his piece of paper for a minute, ears pink. Michael understood--James angry was a lot like a sunshine-warmed friendly tiger abruptly unsheathing deadly claws--but didn’t sympathize. The man deserved it. Besides, those words were hanging in the air, burrowing into Michael’s heart, ringing through the clang of half-dismantled equipment.

There was someone, James had said. I said I’d wait. So I am.

James would wait, for him. Wouldn’t push, wouldn’t force Michael to make a decision. Would leave for Canada alone if need be, rather than demand that Michael choose him.

Self-sacrificing, generous, ridiculous, courageous. Too fucking _perfect._ No other word.

...words. _Was,_ James’d said. Past tense. Unconsciously so, even while supporting Michael’s decision. 

James _already_ thought that Michael would--that Michael wouldn’t want--that Michael could ever walk away from him, could ever not love him, might be thinking that right now--

“Y’know,” Matthew said, wandering by again, “we could use you. Not me personally, but them. The models. Self-defense. Training. Awareness. They never get that before they’re thrown in with the sharks. And whatever you said to him, it worked. People’d pay good money for that. Get better models, too, probably. _I’d_ pay you for that.”

Michael stood very still, while tiny explosions went off in the back of his head.

He could. He _could._ He could do something else. He had skills, he really did, every way he knew how to move and evaluate objects in a room and be alert to all the possibilities around him--they could use that, _James_ could use that, he’d still be helping people and he’d never have to worry about jumping in front of a bullet on some random assignment and having his last thought be of the shocked hurt in blue eyes when someone finally told James the news--he could work _with_ James, who’d know what models needed to know, about flexibility and self-protection and informed use of props and stunts, and they could build something together--

The interview was ending. The interviewer was smiling, extending a hand, saying thank you and good-bye. Getting up.

James was getting up as well, unfolding legs, stretching arms casually over his head. His hands were lost inside those wild acres of sleeves, but the sweater rose up at his waist, leaving a strip of soft, touchable skin visible.

Touchable. Michael’s heart pounded. Not just a description, not just wishful thinking. Today, unlike that very first day on set when he’d caught a flash of James’ bare stomach, Michael didn’t jerk his eyes away. Touchable. Hard to believe, but it might actually be.

“So.” James’ smile turned a little rueful. “I’ve just realized that you heard every word of that. I should’ve thought. Less than ten feet from you. Sorry.”

“No,” Michael said, and reached out to find James’ hands with both of his, discovering fingers amid endless folds of grey fabric and folding his own around them. James’ eyebrows shot up. “That’s--”

“Hardly professional? I know. You said Canada. Next.”

“I...did...why’re you looking at me like--”

“Like I want to kiss you?”

“Did something fucking amazing happen when I wasn’t looking,” James said, and Michael tugged him a little closer and said, “Canada is cold. You might need protection. From the cold,” and James said “Seriously?” but there was joy in his face now, tugging at the corners of eyes, the edges of those lips. “I thought we were worried about that. Being professional. Us.”

“I love that you said we. And no. We’re not. I’m resigning. And coming with you. I want to talk to you about that--oh, and Matthew, if he was serious--”

_“Matthew?”_

“--not in the same way! I can--I’ll tell you later. I want to come with you. I want to be your someone when you get asked that question in interviews. I want to bring you coffee every fucking morning. I love you. I do want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

"Why the fuck would I say no?" James said, smile bright and close and Michael's for the taking.

Michael abandoned James' hands, but only to pull him closer and touch him more. One hand cupping his neck, one nestled in the dip of his back, Michael could finally hold James for no other reason but to hold him, and he breathed in, memorizing the moment, keeping it - keeping James - for good.

So many times he'd come so close to kissing James. But this, _this_ was what James looked like when he was about to be kissed: a pink flush warming his face, stealing between the freckles; his eyes hooded, darkly blue; his smile a breath away from Michael's mouth, and a thing of miracles.

“I love you too,” James said softly, the words nearly brushing Michael’s lips. And Michael, unable to wait a second longer, finally closed that last bit of distance between them.

James kissed like joy as well, bright and sweet, like the unfurling promise of a sunny spring morning. All the possibilities in the world ahead of them, the long shadows of worry and doubt banished by the dawn. Distantly, Michael heard the voices of onlookers, chittering away like excited sparrows. He didn't care. His world had become James' lips, James' breath, James' warmth, and it would be from now on.


End file.
